


Led by a Beating Heart

by zanzibar



Category: Hockey RPF
Genre: Joke Gifts, M/M, Yankee Swap, super late Christmas fic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-01-26
Updated: 2014-01-26
Packaged: 2018-01-10 02:42:21
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,947
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1153807
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/zanzibar/pseuds/zanzibar
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In which Paul thinks he should stop giving joke gifts and James is appreciative of said joke gifts.</p><p>Paulie’s from the land of White Elephant and Yankee Swap, where gifts reappear year after year at holiday parties until they become the stuff of legends, rearing their ugly heads in large and misshapen boxes, tags still on and smelling like the musty combination of the back of the closet and the garage.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Led by a Beating Heart

**Author's Note:**

> Title from Bastille - Laura Palmer.
> 
> This has been a work in progress for too long. Which is to say, this is Christmas fic that I'm happy got posted before February.
> 
> For my giant midwestern family, who are all legendary yankee swap ninjas.

This is why Paul doesn’t do joke gifts. 

His reputation as a meticulous gift giver is well-earned. He pays attention, makes notes, listens carefully when the people in his life complain about crappy can openers and never having a good book to read and he never, ever waits until the last minute.

He knows the best way to strike a perfect harmony between casual and meaningful, he knows how to pay attention and make notes on his iPhone when the moment calls for it. For the most part this means that people who receive gifts from him are often touched by his thoughtfulness.

The main part of James’ Christmas gift is socks. James has strong feelings about socks, he likes patterns, and poly-wool blends and mid-calf length and no higher. It becomes kind of a scavenger hunt for Paulie, picking up a pair here and a pair there until he has pretty healthy stack of socks to put in a box.

The socks are not the problem.

To be totally honest Paul mostly forgets that he bought them, and yet there they are, a three-pack of Christmas boxer briefs, clearance tag still on, tossed in the top of the obnoxious red and green topped Rubbermaid that also contains an orderly wrapping of white light strings, a bag of red and silver balls and an impressive collection of penguin-themed Christmas ornaments.

He finds the boxers, helpfully labelled with a sticky note that simply says “J,” when he goes looking for Christmas lights, because his neighborhood is ridiculous and just as soon as Thanksgiving is over a switch flips and all of a sudden Santa’s workshop explodes all over everything. He’s also appreciative of the warm glow of white lights in the windows, it makes it feel like Christmas, even when the weather in Pittsburgh is alternating between depressingly gray with no snow, winter wonderland and my-god-has-everyone-forgotten-how-to-drive-in-9-short-months.

It’s probably a sign that he bought the boxers almost a year ago. 

They’ve only been doing this thing, whatever it is, hooking up, probably, since West Point. Kissing over scrambled eggs, blatantly not defining what is going on but going home together more often than not, cuddling on the couch after practice, . It’s, nice, unexpected, but comfortable in a way that he isn’t used to undefined hooking up being.

This should also, probably, be a sign.

They don’t exchange gifts as planned. Which is to say that James wanders over to drive to the airport wearing a wool jacket, glasses, gray slacks, a cream sweater that Paul knows from experience is as soft as a baby blanket, black shoes and no socks. Which is not an awesome decision given the polar vortex, predicted snowpacalypse, winter weather situation currently blanketing the entirety of the east coast. James sits on a barstool and stretches his legs across to the other while he sips his coffee and Paul rolls his eyes at the sight of James’ naked winter white ankles. He sets his coffee on the counter and wanders into the living room to pull the box out from under the tree and dump it in James’ lap.

The best part of Christmas is gift giving. In Paul’s mind there is no argument for this. There is nothing better than watching the glee as someone rips into a package and discovers something that they love.

James is possibly the best for this. His face lights up at the sight of the neatly wrapped package and he doesn’t bother with perfunctory careful sliding of a finger through tape and civilized opening of presents. 

He rips. He doesn’t want scissors for the ribbon, doesn’t think about saving the paper for some kind of future wrapping paper shortage. 

His face stretches into a cheek-bone cracking grin when he opens the box and finds socks. Piles and piles of socks. He pulls them out and lays them in a line on the counter, until he has to start a second row and Paul’s a little embarrassed at just exactly how many pairs of socks he managed to buy.

At the bottom of the box is a pair of slippers nestled in tissue paper. They're the same slippers James has at his house, fur-lined with a firm rubber sole that makes taking the trash out or running out for the paper possible. The slippers are also useful for the short jog across the street for breakfast and morning sex. 

James looks up, confused. “More slippers?” He asks with a raised eyebrow.

“I thought,” Paul takes a quick sip of coffee, chokes a little and has to take two deep breaths to recover, “you could leave them here.” He says. Stronger now. “That way you’ll have a pair when you’re here.”

There’s so much left unspoken in that sentence that Paul almost falls over from it. James has clothes in Paul’s closet, not enough to warrant a section all his own, but enough that they take up a visible chunk of space. He doesn’t have a drawer, but his boxers are mixed in with Paul’s in the drawer and the drawer full of Penguins stuff has just as many things marked with 18 as with 7.

Even before they started this new thing, the kissing thing, their lives have always been mixed comfortably together. But something about the slippers feels like a step off the edge and onto the ice, the familiar combination of comfort and heart pounding anxiety making Paul's hands shake just a bit.

The boxers are one of three smaller gifts that make up James’ remaining pile, along with a new stainless coffee mug that replaces the one with a broken handle that doesn’t fit in the cupholders in Paul’s car and a new shower kit to replace the ziplock bag that James has used the entire time Paul has known him. They officially exchange gifts late on the night of the 23rd, sitting across from each other, cross-legged in front of the tree, home from the clusterfuck of Ottawa and ready for the brief respite of the Christmas break.

Paul’s stack of gifts contains 2 merino wool v-neck sweaters, soft like the one he stole from James months ago and smelling faintly of the cologne James only wears on game day. Four tubes of the Kiehl’s shave cream that he loves but is too cheap to buy for himself, a new cast iron skillet and a box of bacon-chocolate-chip pancake mix and the entire Dexter series on DVD.

When they’re finished opening gifts, wrapping paper strewn around the living room, lights from the tree casting a warm glow across Paulie's living room he can’t help pushing up onto his knees to press his lips against James’. He isn’t sure of much these days, the future knitting together as slowly as the fresh bones in his leg. But he can’t help but be happy to be where he is.

They sleep that night tangled tightly together in a way that they don’t normally, James nestled against Paul’s side, arms wrapped around each other. In the morning they'll kiss lazily until they absolutely have to get up. Paul will pour coffee into to-go cups and they'll jump in the car to drop James off at the airport for a quick trip to Whitby and in the same swipe pick up Paulie's parents and sister for Christmas in Pittsburgh. 

He doesn’t actually expect James to wear the aforementioned boxer-briefs. Paulie’s from the land of White Elephant and Yankee Swap, where joke gifts reappear year after year at holiday parties until they become the stuff of legends, rearing their ugly heads in large and misshapen boxes, tags still on and smelling like the musty combination of the back of the closet and the garage. Which is why he’s a little lost for words when he catches a brief glimpse of the bright green waistband and a peek of red between the line of James’ pants and the cut of his hip when he’s stretching to pull his skates off the hooks to go once the ice for at the Christmas party.

It sends a little unexpected frisson of heat down his spine. 

He has to sit on the bench for a little longer and futz with his skates just so he doesn't embarrass himself in front of a bunch of innocent children when he finally does stand up. 

The Christmas party has always featured a pretty well-balanced array of activities for the young and single and for the older and more settled. There's some entertaining cross-over with everyone sitting on Santa's lap and a balloon artist who spends time making awesomely intricate animals for the kids and extravagantly intricate hats for the grown-ups.

This is how James ends up wearing a hat that features balloon mistletoe hanging off of it and between that and another glimpse of red above his waistband Paul ends up muscling him into the handicapped bathroom in a deserted section of the club level and pressing their lips together roughly until James’ hips are arching into air and Paul’s hands are slipping under the layers of clothes he’s wearing in search of warm smooth skin.

There's also a giant dinner and some speeches about Christmas and family and hockey and a fair amount of alcohol consumed.

For the past few years instead of just wandering to their respective homes after the party breaks up, they’ve been having a sort of informal after party at Geno’s, everybody invading G’s ostentatious house for junk food and even more alcohol and to play pool, have video game wars and watch the giant TV in the media room. 

This year they pile into the rented SUV’s that always appear when there’s the possibility of a little too much alcohol consumption and wave goodbye to the guys who have to go home and put munchkins to bed. 

Paulie is a little wound up, the combination of Christmas boxer briefs and James pressed against him in the Suburban and stolen kisses in dark corners of Consol and alcohol and the heady rush of alcohol and all the boys together again combining into an irresistible itch under his skin.

In the dark of what Paul desperately hopes is a guest room James leans back against the wall and slides his hands across the warm skin of Paulie’s shoulders, Paulie rests their foreheads together for a minute, closing his eyes and listening to the dull thump of music from downstairs. When he opens his eyes again it's just in time to see James blink slowly, looking up through his lashes to meet Paulie's eyes and it isn't a shock that James knows which buttons to push, but it's always a surprise when he blatantly uses them to get exactly what he wants.

This is no exception. He blinks again, making sure to bite his lip when he meets Paul's eyes and it really isn't even fair anymore., “Fuck it,” Paul groans and pins him against the wall by his wrists, desperately pressing their lips together.

“Shouldn’t be doing this,” Paul breathes against his mouth - because Paulie’s mom raised him right, or at least right enough that sex against the wall in someone else’s house wasn’t on the list of acceptable behavior. 

“Don’t care.” James grins. Because he has three younger brothers and his mom raised him not to burn other people’s houses down.

James doesn’t hesitate before he closes the gap between them.

Paulie’s had hours to smolder, hours of covert touching only guaranteeing that the kiss is hot and hard and so demanding that when James tilts his head further sideways to deepen it, Paul feels like he could come apart, just from this.

James groans when their tongues twine together, and the vibration against his lips sending another streak of lust down his spine. 

They break apart to breathe, and Paulie slides his nose against the stubble of James’ jaw, nuzzling behind his ear and confessing “God, I’ve wanted you all day.”

James smiles cheekily before catching their lips together, pulling him forward so their bodies are pressed together. He doesn’t pull back when he mutters - “so what are you waiting for.”

James slides his hands up and down Paulie’s back in a way that is probably supposed to be soothing but is mostly making him even more crazy, fingers catching the edge of his tshirt, his belt, the bare skin of his neck.

Paulie yanks his shirt over his head and presses their lips together again while he slides James’ shirt up his sides and over his head. He gets distracted unbuckling James’ belt, slowly revealing the completely ridiculous red boxers, tight on James’ thighs with an equivalently ridiculous thick Santa belt and faux fur screened onto the material as well.

James adds a little hip shimmy when his belt and pants are undone. Not enough to drop his pants to his ankles, but enough that they slide lower on his thighs, and when he slides a hand through his hair so it stands up on end his bicep flexes with the motion and he looks like some kind of very specific holiday themed soft-porn model.

Paul makes a split-second decision. There are things he wants here. He wants James spread out for him, he wants to take his time, make the buildup all worth it. But most of all, at this moment he wants to make James lose his mind.

There’s no dropping to his knees exactly. He’s a professional athlete, full of grace and flexibility, and knowledge that knees are important to his future as a professional athlete. Instead, he turns them and pushes James into the leather recliner in the corner. 

“It’s the boxers,” Paulie admits as he slides them down along with James’ pants until they pool at his ankles and he can slide his hands up the ticklish insides of his thighs.

“They seemed appropriate,” James shivers as the calluses of Paul’s fingers catch on the soft hair of his thighs.

“There’s nothing about this that’s appropriate,” Paulie cocks an eyebrow, grins and runs his tongue around the crown of James’ dick.

Paulie loves this, loves the thick weight of James on his tongue, the hot pulse of blood against his hand, the rhythm that they create together. But most of all he loves James’ hand, sliding possessively across the back of his head, long fingers weaving through his hair while he breathes Paulie’s name.

Later, when they’re home and both naked on the bed, Paul slides their bodies together and relishes the the stream of cursing and noises that James can’t stop making.

“Paulie, please Paulie, fuck, please,” James arches his neck against the pillows and Paul takes a spare second as he’s lubing his fingers to imagine the epic sex hair he’ll be sporting in the morning. 

And soon he’s sliding three fingers in, thrusting and scissoring and watching James come apart, fisting the sheets and thrashing his head like he’ll actually die if Paulie stops.

“Pauliepleaseplease now, oh fuck, please.”

Paul withdraws his fingers and retrieves the condom from the foot of the bed. He skins the condom on and grins when James lifts his ankles to rest on his shoulders, Paulie turns his head to kiss his calf and when James moans loud and long as he presses in Paul thinks about how thankful he is that they waited till they were home, in their bed, to do this.

“GoGoGo,” James breathes against his lips, and Paul rocks in slowly, languid movements against him, not ready to chase pleasure too quickly. 

They find their rhythm quickly, bodies in tune in a way that betrays how often they’ve been doing this lately. Paul settling into slow deep thrusts, pulling out nearly all the way before pushing back in, and letting James’ hips arch against him on the downstroke.

“Oh fuck, yes,” Paul pants turning to press another kiss against the side of his knee when he hits James’ prostate and James arches further, clawing at his back and pulling him harder and faster against him. 

On his next thrust James yanks him down to press their lips together, sloppy and open-mouthed, tongues sliding together until they’re both breathless with it. Paul has to pull away to bite at his jaw and James drops his legs to wrap tightly around Paul’s back. He’s thrusting fast, hitting that spot over and over and over and James throws his head back against the pillow one more time before he sees white on the edges of his vision and feels the pleasure gather at the base of his spine.

It’s an extra surreal experience to actually come together, for the vice grip of James’ body to push him over the edge almost exactly at the same moment.

They lie there, panting, for several minutes, Paul pulling out carefully and collapsing on his side to catch his breath. James grins and rolls on his side. “I can’t believe that’s what I get for wearing Santa boxers.”

“It wasn’t just the boxers,” Paulie groans rolling out of bed and into the bathroom to take care of the condom. “It was the confluence of the things.”

“You’re not supposed to be able to use the word confluence in a sentence after I’ve blown your mind Paulie. It’s a rule.” James appears beside him in the bathroom, plucking his toothbrush out of the cup next to the sink and swiping at the mess on his belly with the washcloth Paul hands him.

They brush their teeth companionably and curl together in bed, bodies pressed together, lulled to sleep by slow steady breathing and the glow of Christmas lights from the hallway.


End file.
